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Cio-cio-san

Half a century after he first met Methos, one memory of that long afternoon remained imprinted on MacLeod’s memory, as immediate as one of those old 20^th century Polaroids.

They had been standing in a dank, dark Parisian underpass. White, shaking with cold and exertion, dripping river water on MacLeod’s expensively shod feet, Methos had bared his neck for the taking.

If he closed his eyes, MacLeod could recall every detail: the scent of diesel in the March air, the distant roar of traffic; the weight of the sword as his hands tightened on the carved hilt, feeling the ivory claws of the dragon beneath his fingertips. In his mind’s eye he saw again the boyish nape of the neck before him, the vulnerable Adam’s apple as Methos swallowed once, hard, waiting…

And for an instant MacLeod had wondered what it would be like to feel the rush of a 5,000 year-old Quickening surging through his body in the ultimate spiritual orgasm. A helluva temptation for any man—and Methos offered a convincing argument:

I cannot beat Kalas. I have tried. He will take my head and then he will have the strength to take yours.

Even Mac wasn’t sure how it might have gone, but the next moment a car horn blared from down the tunnel, headlights flashed, and the two had broken apart, Duncan wheeling away to conceal his katana in the folds of his overcoat. When he had looked next, Methos was gone, the quick, light echo of his footsteps dying away in the Paris twilight.

That was one memory, but after a few decades reflection, probably not the truest picture of the oldest Immortal. No, that had come an hour or two later when the gendarmes had broken up MacLeod’s battle with Kalas.

"Why?" Mac had demanded when ‘Adam Pierson’ brushed past him as the cops hustled a handcuffed Kalas into a white police van.

And Methos had replied with casual arrogance that proved to be typical of the man, "Because I wasn’t sure you could beat him. I couldn’t take that chance."

After that Methos had disappeared, lock, stock and beer barrel. MacLeod had not expected to see him again. Two weeks later he spotted him in a crowded café in Montparnasse.

Long after he forgot what drew him to that particular place at that particular time, MacLeod remembered the shock of that recognition. Feeling the 'aura' of an Immortal, Mac had paused in the doorway, peering through the blue smoke finding two men at a corner table. One was mortal, young, really young, maybe twenty—and very drunk. He had his arm around the older man’s shoulders, and he kept trying to stick his tongue in his ear. The elder was the Immortal; across the crowded room MacLeod’s eyes locked with the glinting green gaze.

Methos. Methos drunk in a wine bar, his hand massaging the thigh of a Parisian rent boy.

Slowly, feeling like someone in a Fellini movie, Mac made his way through the press of bodies, the din of voices dying to a whisper.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Methos had greeted him in that slightly mocking voice Mac remembered. "Ca va?"

"Methos?" he had breathed.

Methos winced. "Adam, please."

The boy mumbled something in French and nuzzled Methos beneath his ear. At Mac’s expression Methos had laughed.

"Awae, ye gay landscapes," he quoted in truly bad imitation Scots. "Och, don’t look so shocked, Highlander."

"I didn’t realize you were…"

"Still in town?" Not a handsome face really, but attractive; clever, sensitive. The eyes were hazel, not green. In the candlelight they shone like Egyptian glass beads.

"No." MacLeod glanced at the youth trying to crawl in Methos’ lap.

Methos smiled. It was more of a smirk. "After a century or two, you begin to experiment," he remarked. "After a millennium you understand that it’s not face or form but the...inner person that attracts."

MacLeod said dryly, "I see. You want him for his mind?"

Methos laughed and shoved the kid back in his chair. "And sometimes all one needs is a few drinks and a quick fuck."

"Can we go now?" the boy whined in French, scowling at MacLeod who continued to stand in unspoken disapproval, ignoring Methos’ gesture to sit. The boy’s pretty, vacuous face was beginning to annoy Mac.

Gazing up, Methos drawled, " ‘Oh, for the crags that are wild and majestic, the steep frowning glories of dark Lochnagar!’ Do you know Byron, MacLeod?" Not waiting for an answer he pulled out his wallet and unfolded crisp franc notes, sliding them over to the boy. He leaned forward, whispered something in French that MacLeod couldn’t make out, and kissed the youth full on his mouth, before pushing up from the table.

Critically, MacLeod observed Methos weaving his way through the packed tables, a slim, rumpled figure in a Burberry. The Invisible Man. He followed him out on to the sidewalk.

Methos swayed a little in the chill night air. Drunk but not dead drunk. He headed off down the deserted street, and MacLeod fell into step beside him.

They walked without speaking, then Methos sighed. "I miss the old Paris. Hemingway, Fitz, American expatriates flirting with art and literature and each other. The Lost Generation used to litter the Left Bank like champagne corks. I remember the first time I heard Piaf sing ‘Non, Je ne regrette rien.’ Come to think of it, Piaf was later, wasn’t she?"

"I was in Paris in 1920. Funny we never ran into each other."

No comment.

The moon was haloed in mist; the play of shadows and lamplight on the empty streets and shuttered windows reminding MacLeod of Brassai’s dramatic photographs of Paris at night. Their footsteps rang off the glistening cobblestones; their shadows, exaggeratedly long and menacing, stalked them along the building fronts.

When Mac had first heard of the legendary Methos, he had pictured someone…older. Someone dignified, venerable. Not that someone like that would have survived five centuries in the Game. Frankly, it was surprising to think that this Methos had. "He’s a little young for you, isn’t he?" MacLeod inquired, unable to shake the memory of the boy in the café.

"Everyone is these days." Methos shrugged deeper into his coat, his breath smoking in the crisp air.

It was Methos who felt the Presence first. He stumbled a little, slowed. Then MacLeod felt it.

"Friend of yours?"

"I don’t have any friends."

A man appeared in the grainy triangle of lamplight. Tall, gaunt and bearded. Drawing his sword, he called across the narrow street, "Jason Powers."

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," MacLeod threw back, reaching for the katana.

"Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?" murmured Methos, his breath warm against Mac’s ear.

Powers and MacLeod both waited for him to identify himself. When he did not, MacLeod challenged Powers. "Who are you hunting?"

Powers shook his head. "No one. I’m…on my way home, that’s all."

No one moved. Methos seemed to be watching MacLeod with all the interest of a tourist observing the arcane customs of a foreign country. Music drifted from down the road. A window opened overhead.

Powers hesitated and then sheathed his sword. Mac relaxed a fraction.

Losing interest, Methos set off, showing no signs of his former inebriation. MacLeod followed, crossing paths with Powers warily. Powers kept his hand on his sword hilt, and Mac kept his eyes on Powers. When they were safely past each other MacLeod lengthened his stride to catch up Methos.

They continued unspeaking until the Presence of Jason Powers could no longer be felt, then Methos, reading Mac’s silence correctly, said "An alpha male reaction, MacLeod."

"You’re a little old for hide and seek, Methos."

"The secret of my success."

"That’s not how the Game is played."

Methos lifted an indifferent shoulder.

"I don’t believe you’re afraid. You offered your head to me once."

"A moment of weakness," Methos replied lightly. "Keep in mind I offered my head to the one Immortal unlikely to take it."

MacLeod digested this. "It’s the time of the Gathering," he said at last. "No one gets to sit this one out."

Sounding bored, Methos replied, "Every millennium or so, some wise guy announces it’s the time of the Gathering, and Immortals start whacking each other like homicidal lemmings." Into Mac’s silence, he added, "I seem to recall you taking a century off when it suited you."

MacLeod was reminded that Methos had access to all the Watcher chronicles. An unsettling thought. "What happens if we all go off and do our own thing?" he asked curtly.

"I’ve often wondered. Be interesting to find out, don’t you think?" Methos stopped, resting his hand briefly on Mac’s sleeve. "I’ll leave you here, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

MacLeod studied the façade of the apartment building curiously. It was a tall, old building; stone gargoyles leered down from the upper-story cornice. Blue lights illuminated a leaking fountain. It looked exactly the sort of place one would have expected to find the mysterious Methos.

Methos ran lightly up the steps, opened the foyer door and vanished inside the building.

MacLeod walked on alone. Turning the corner, he settled down to wait.

It was nearly ten minutes before Methos slipped out again, hurrying down the steps and starting back the way they had come. Footsteps quick and quiet, his silhouette glided in and out of the light cast by the street lamps.

Mac smiled grimly to himself and followed, hanging well back, keeping his quarry just within sight.

Twenty minutes later he was intrigued to see Methos head down the tree-lined street of his former digs. Whistling under his breath, Methos trotted up the stairs and let himself into #3. The fox to his lair.

From across the road MacLeod waited, watching the lights come on in the flat. A tiny smile touched his mouth and he stepped back into the shadows.

He didn’t even call Dawson; the line between Watcher and Immortal unexpectedly materializing. Methos was playing a dangerous game, but it was his neck after all.

On the other hand, should the Quickening of a very old and powerful Immortal be taken by someone like Kalas, it could mean trouble for everyone. That kind of trouble MacLeod didn’t need.

MacLeod found the 5,000 year-old man in the University library surrounded by pillars of dusty tomes. Sunlight from an oriel window brought out hints of red in his hair and illuminated his clear, pale skin as he sat reading at a desk. Camouflaged in sweater and jeans, he could have been just another grad student, but his Presence was remarkable and unmistakable—MacLeod had never felt any quite like it; deep and resonating like wind through the caverns at Qumran; high and bright like the tinkle of Himalayan temple bells. Mac’s spine tingled as though he had been stung by a jellyfish.

Methos’ lashes lifted. Just for a moment there seemed to be a gleam of irritation in the hazel eyes. Then he said mildly, "MacLeod. Well, well. We have to stop meeting like this."

"You’re taking a chance coming back here, Adam."

"Do you think so?" Methos tilted his chair back, considering the taller man. "Perhaps I’m relying on your much vaunted chivalry."

"I’m not the only one who knows. Joe Dawson knows who you are as well."

"Dawson, of course. But Dawson isn’t exactly in a position to throw stones. His relationship with you is a little, shall we say, unorthodox?"

MacLeod’s mouth tightened. "Kalas knows."

"Kalas is in prison."

Despite his good intentions, MacLeod began to grow impatient. He bent over the desk, big hands splayed on the wood, saying undervoiced. "Look, why take such a risk? Your cover is blown. The Game is up. You know the rules." The very words he had determined not to speak.

Receiving the very reaction he expected. "Don’t go all Marquis of Queensbury on me, MacLeod. I like this gig." ‘Adam’ looked around the library, with its vault ceilings, marble columns and maze of gilt-edged books. "It’s quiet and comfortable. And safe." He smiled faintly. "Don’t worry, Dawson won’t give me up. He’s known me for years. He likes ‘Adam.’ And he knows what could happen to me if word got out at Watcher Central."

"What are you talking about?"

Methos' gaze grew speculative. "Watchers are about as keen on Immortals infiltrating their society, as Immortals are who discover they are being watched."

MacLeod was mute, remembering his initial reaction on finding Darius’s chronicle.

"Horton didn’t act alone. He had his supporters; the true believers still view him as a martyr. How do you suppose those folks would feel about an Immortal who has been posing as one of them and tapping into their database?" He drew a finger across his neck and made the time-honored sound for throat-cutting.

MacLeod glowered. "All the more reason to move on."

"Speaking of moving on, you’re beginning to attract attention." Methos opened his book and stuck his nose back in it, the conversation apparently at end.

The unlikely beginning to an unlikely friendship.

********** 

"I believe it was Johnson who said, ‘Much may be made of a Scotchman if he be caught young.’ " Methos was studying the watercolors over MacLeod’s Queen Anne sideboard.

"Sasunnach," MacLeod answered from the kitchen.

That was the first evening Methos came to dinner at the barge. He brought Mac the 1683 calf-bound edition of Pallas Armata: Military Essayes of the Ancient Grecian, Roman, and Modern Art of War, which he claimed had turned up at Shakespeare and Company.

"I used to own a copy of this a century ago," Mac muttered disbelievingly, examining the yellowed pages.

"I know. It's your copy."

Sure enough, there on the flyleaf was MacLeod's name scrawled in a bold, black hand.

Brushing aside MacLeod’s amazed thanks, Methos said indifferently, "It was this or a bottle of wine."

MacLeod no longer remembered much of that dinner. It must have gone well; it was the first of many lazy evenings spent talking and drinking late into the night. At some point they broke out the chessboard and found themselves evenly matched; something new for Mac.

As for the book, for years Mac kept it at his bedside until Richie borrowed it and it was lost once more in the aftermath of his death.

"When do you train?" MacLeod asked the oldest Immortal another evening as Methos, sprawled on MacLeod’s sofa, showed signs of slipping into his usual after-dinner coma.

Methos opened one eye. "When I need to."

"You think Kalas is the only Immortal who’s thought of jacking into a 5,000 megahertz Quickening?"

"Why, are you thinking of it?"

"Seriously. You need to train. Why don’t you work out with me?"

Methos gave him a quizzical look, opened his mouth and then seemed to think better of it. "So many heads, so little time," he murmured, closing his eyes once more.

Actually, it wasn’t like Mac didn’t have plenty to keep him busy, occupied as he was with Immortal Nazis, the direction his relationship with Anne Lindsey was going, Immortal Cossacks, Maurice’s wayward niece, and most alarming of all, Amanda popping in and out of his life (and barge). Still, Mac kept a close eye on Methos, unable to believe that he could pull off the Adam Pierson charade indefinitely, and expecting to lend a helping hand—or sword—when the moment came.

"It was different in the old days. Our lives provided the training. Ever since mortals stopped carrying swords—"

"One who exceeds as a warrior does not appear formidable, MacLeod."

"Why do I bother?"

Methos offered that quirky smile. "You’re an antique dealer. You appreciate old things."

They were standing outside Methos’ door, Methos fumbling for his keys while balancing a stack of library books.

"Help me out here, MacLeod," he said plaintively, and Mac took the armload of books, shuffling them awkwardly.

Methos straightened up, smiling an odd smile that raised the hair on the back of MacLeod’s neck. Methos pulled his sword. The spring sunlight glittered on the etched blade.

"You really are too good to be true," he commented.

MacLeod shoved the tower of books at Methos who fell back a couple of steps but held on to his sword.

"What the hell are you playing at?" MacLeod demanded, drawing his katana.

"Just illustrating a point." Methos extended the tip of his sword in a perfectly executed lunge.

MacLeod knocked the blade away with his own. "What point?"

"That I haven’t survived over 5,000 years by being an easy mark."

"So you mentioned once before. About an hour before Kalas threw your sorry ass in the Seine, as I recollect."

Methos laughed. One of the few times MacLeod had heard him do so. "Touché." Returning his weapon to its scabbard, he knelt to pick up the scattered books, apparently unconcerned that MacLeod still stood over him, sword in hand.

Shortly after this, Amanda, in a spirit of terrifying helpfulness, broke Kalas out of prison, and the next thing Mac knew, Dawson and ‘Adam Pierson’ were running around Paris like old pals on their "Watcher business." It was vaguely irritating.

It was also about this time that an odd and discomfiting thing happened to MacLeod. He began to notice things about Methos: the kind of things he had never noticed about another man before.

He noticed the crease in his cheek when he smiled that enigmatic little smile; and the way his tilted eyes changed color with his emotions, sometimes green, sometimes brown; he noticed the long, lean line of his body in the loose fitting clothes he favored—hell, he even noticed the clothes: Methos dressing like a refugee from The Gap.

And Mac noticed the attention Methos paid Amanda, and this too irritated him—he couldn’t decide if it was because Amanda played up to Methos or because Methos seemed genuinely taken with Amanda.

Mac remembered what Methos had said about starting to experiment after a century or two. He found himself imagining having sex with another man—and the other man always seemed to be Methos.

**********

"He’s cute," Amanda commented one evening after Kalas had been (as Methos put it) ‘powered down.’ Methos’ aura was fading with his footsteps down the barge gangplank as Amanda cuddled up with MacLeod.

"Cute?"

Amanda’s red mouth made a little moue. "Well, in an overeducated, grungy-but-well-scrubbed kind of way."

"Uh huh."

Amanda was looking thoughtful. Always a danger sign. "You know some women would find that quirky boyish thing appealing. Maybe we should set him up."

MacLeod nearly spilled his cordial. "Set him up?"

"Fix him up, I mean. You know, with a date. I think he’s lonely."

MacLeod sipped his Drambuie. "Leave the man alone, Amanda."

"But Duncan, did you ever look into his eyes? Sometimes they’re…I don’t know. He gets this expression. Like he’s on the outside looking in."

"Well, he is a Watcher."

Amanda giggled and kissed Mac’s jaw. "And what is up with that?"

********** 

Mac returned to the States and Methos turned up shortly after to warn him that Kristin Gilles was back in town. The moral dilemma posed for Mac by Kristin's relationship with Richie seemed to perplex the oldest Immortal. He observed impatiently, and then, no gentlemen he, Methos dispatched the femme fatale perfunctorily.

Then it was Mac's turn to be impatient and perplexed when Methos proceeded to astonish everyone by falling for a mousy little waitress at Joe’s who happened to be terminally ill; quixotic behavior from the ruthlessly pragmatic Methos which nearly cost him (as well as Mac and Amanda) his head.

Mac just didn't get it.

In a short time this living antiquity had become one of the people closest to MacLeod. He had repaid Mac's intervention with Kalas three-fold. They had whiled away hours discussing philosophy and arguing strategy; they had fenced (with words and swords); they had played cards. After four hundred years MacLeod considered himself to be a judge of men, mortal and immortal, but he would have been the first to confess he didn't understand Methos.

"You know him better than anyone, Mac," Dawson said once.

"That's not saying much," Mac had retorted.

But he did believe Methos trusted him, as far as Methos was capable of trust. The proof came a few weeks before the Watcher Tribunal put Dawson on trial for treason.

MacLeod was enjoying a peaceful evening on the barge listening to Anna Moffo's 1957 recording of Madama Butterfly, and savoring a wee dram of Hennessy's 'Ancient Stock' when he felt an approaching Presence.

On his feet, sword in hand, MacLeod climbed on deck, eyes scanning the vapor rising off the water, shape-shifting along the embankment.

A tall figure stumbled out of the billowing fog.

Mac observed the figure take the gangway at a staggering run, clutching its side.

"Just don’t say, I told you so," Methos gasped out, and MacLeod lowered his sword.

"What happened to you?" Instinctively Mac reached for him, and Methos half-collapsed in his arms.

"Bloody Jason Powers." He caught a ragged breath. "Sounds like the action figure from a cartoon series. Batteries not included."

Over the bent head, MacLeod scanned the shore for any sign of Powers. There was no evidence of any Immortal but Methos.

Half-carrying Methos down the cramped stairway, Mac deposited him on the brocade-covered sofa and stared down at his wet hands.

"You’re covered in blood."

"I know. Most of it is mine."

Mac unbuttoned Methos' dark overcoat glistening in the mellow lamplight with streaks of gore. "Then Powers isn’t dead?"

Methos' eyes snapped open. "Does it look like Powers is dead?"

MacLeod laid wide Methos' shirt. His jaw clenched at the deep stab wound still bleeding sluggishly. Methos groaned, "Christ, I lost my sword!"

"You’re lucky it wasn’t your head."

"I’ve had that sword since the third Crusade. I dropped it in the river. Fucking amateur." He raised his head, anxiously peering at the wound. "God, I hope I don’t die."

"You’ll get over it."

"It’s still unpleasant as hell. It hurts as much as it does for mortals." His nostrils flared as he examined the bloody tips of his fingers.

"How do you know?"

"Judging by their screams and yells."

"Well, stop wriggling around and maybe you won’t bleed to death."

"Right." Methos took an experimental breath and bit back a sound of pain. "Sorry about the upholstery."

Mac grunted. After a moment he asked, "Would you like something to drink? Beer?"

"Beer? You offer a dying man a beer?"

"I’ve never seen you drink anything else."

"Water will do." Methos laid his head back on the sofa rest and closed his eyes.

Madama Butterfly was launching into her final aria as MacLeod seated himself beside the sofa once more. He set the water on a low table.

Methos seemed to be dozing. Mac could see the tiny blue sparks flickering over his torn abdomen as he healed. His stomach was flat and hard, his chest well-muscled, and he possessed a surprising pair of pecs considering the impression he gave of willowy grace. Like this, pale, lashes flickering against his waxen cheeks he looked defenseless and young. One arm draped lifelessly, fingertips brushing the floor. MacLeod picked up Methos' hand, chaffing it gently.

His hands were soft, a little clammy now, the palm and fingertips uncallused. Not the hands of a warrior, MacLeod thought. It was a wonder he had stayed alive this long.

The hazel eyes opened and Methos' colorless lips twitched. His fingers tightened a fraction and then he closed his eyes again.

The music faded into silence. MacLeod listened to the Seine lapping against the barge, the clock ticking away the minutes.

The shallow breaths began to deepen, slow. Color flooded Methos’ cheeks, his hand grew warm in Mac’s. The skin of his belly was smooth, unmarked.

"Resurrection is a bitch," he whispered and opened his eyes.

MacLeod dropped the other man's hand and stood up. "He’ll have had a Watcher," he stated, heading for the decanter.

Methos’ lips twisted. "Not every single Immortal has a Watcher, MacLeod. If he’s new to the Game, he might not have been assigned one yet. I didn’t recognize him from the database."

"You can’t know every Immortal."

"I make it my business to know all the ones in Paris." He sat up cautiously and rubbed his belly, as though checking to make sure he was whole again.

"Does Powers know who you are?"

Methos shook his head. "It seems he just…liked the vibe."

"Great. You made him curious when you wouldn’t ID yourself that night." MacLeod brought Methos a snifter. Their fingers brushed and there was a little snap of electricity.

Methos gave a nervous laugh and tossed off the cognac with less than his usual restraint.

MacLeod cocked an eyebrow, studying him. "Okay?"

"Right as rain."

"You want to stay the night?"

There was relief in the 5,000 year-old eyes. "I thought you'd never ask." Methos held his glass out for a refill.

********** 

But then came the Four Horsemen, and all hell—literally—broke loose. The friendship between MacLeod and Methos survived the firestorm—but barely.

Mac was torn by conflicting loyalties; he had known Cassandra (after a fashion) for centuries, and her passion for vengeance, for justice was something he understood only too well.

He had known Methos less than two years, and he did not understand almost any of his actions.

Mac accepted that in the end Methos had risked his precious neck to save Mac and Cassandra (and humanity), yet he still felt betrayed.

MacLeod remembered the words of his old sensei Hideo Koto. "When you paint a dragon, you paint his skin; it is difficult to paint the bones. When you know a man, you know his face but not his heart."

There were Immortals who believed true friendship was impossible in the ever present shadow of the sword. MacLeod was not one of these. Methos was.

A man who will not trust cannot be trusted, Mac told himself. Yet he missed Methos. He missed the lingering evenings whiled away amiably arguing philosophy, he missed the smart-ass commentary on his life, he even missed cooking for the free-loading son of a bitch.

Weeks went by. Then months. Then Dawson called MacLeod in Paris.

"MacLeod, have you seen M-Adam lately?"

"Nope."

"A friend of mine at HQ said Adam Pierson was taking sick leave. That he looked unwell."

"He’s immortal, Joe. How unwell could he be?"

"Who knows, Mac? Immortals aren't completely invincible. There are cases of mental illness. Look at Michael Moore. Look at Garrick. There are even instances of amnesia."

"Yeah, selective amnesia."

"An Immortal can have a breakdown like anyone else."

MacLeod snorted.

Dawson said a little bitterly, "You can be a real hardass, MacLeod."

Mostly to oblige Dawson he left a couple of phone messages—which went unreturned.

That suited MacLeod. He wasn’t ready to talk to Methos. Not yet.

The phone call came late one night, one rainy and rare night when Mac was actually home in bed alone, sleeping.

Dawson started speaking before MacLeod had fumbled the receiver to his ear.

"Mac, he’s gone. Cleared out."

"Who?"

"You know who," rasped Dawson. "Our mutual friend."

"Let me guess. Starts with ‘M’ and ends with him running away. Again."

Static on the line and then Dawson said, "MacLeod, I don’t know what all went down with the Horsemen; I don’t know exactly what was said between you, but I know Adam. Er-Methos."

"No. You don’t. None of us do."

"I know that Adam—"

"There is no Adam, Joe! Adam is a fiction. A lie. Like everything else about him."

"Adam. Methos. Peter, Paul or Mary. What does it matter what he calls himself, MacLeod? No one stays the same forever. People change. The man is not the same man he was 5,000 years ago."

"2,000 years," MacLeod corrected. Then, realizing how ridiculous that was, "But who’s counting."

He could hear the bells of Notre Dame tolling the hour as Dawson said more quietly, earnestly, "Mac, this is the guy who stood by Alexa till the end. The same guy who risked his neck to save you from the Dark Quickening. This is the guy who spoke up for me at the Watcher Tribunal. This is—"

"Okay! You and Methos can take the historical perspective, Dawson, but Cassandra’s pain is as fresh today as if she was still bleeding."

Over the Trans-Atlantic static MacLeod could hear the rain drumming down on the roof of the barge. He watched it trickling silver like miniature lightning across the portholes.

"Forget I called," Dawson said at last, and hung up.

Yeah, right.

So at first light Duncan had made his way to the building where he had first seen Methos. As though it were yesterday he heard the cultured voice welcoming him, "Me casa es su casa." But the empty rooms had a hollow, unlived-in feel as though no one had lived there for years, as though every trace of Methos had been whisked away by sleight of hand.

On the fireplace mantel was a white envelope with one word in black calligraphy: MacLeod.

MacLeod tore open the envelope, reading, brows drawn together in a thunderous frown.

MacLeod…

Countless times now I’ve scrawled your name on a blank sheet of paper and sat here staring at it. There is nothing left to say. For you this conversation ended in a cemetery in Bordeaux. There is no dialog, only my voice crying out in the wilderness I have carved for myself. What’s done is done. I cannot change the past. I cannot explain or excuse it. Not to your satisfaction. Not even to mine. This alone I would have you understand: I never betrayed you. You believed me to be something I am not; believe me now when I say I tried hard to be the man you believed in. Five thousand years is a long run, and I have become fluent in saying goodbye. But sometimes there are no words.

Farewell, Highlander. Live long.

M.

For a long time MacLeod stood there, staring at the black words on the crisp white paper. Never had paper seemed so white, so blindingly, dazzlingly white, like sunlight on snowfields with tracks leading off to the distance. His eyes hurt looking at it, and his heart thudded in his chest as though he had been fighting long and hard, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

He had expected this. At the same time it was the last thing he had expected.

********** 

It was still raining when he reached Scotland. The sea was pewter; the roiling clouds etched in India ink. Wind scoured the black house and howled down the chimney.

From the croft’s recessed window MacLeod saw Methos start up the long, stone steps, fists shoved in the pockets of his coat, and he looked so normal that it was strange. Halfway up the hillside, Methos' head jerked up and he stopped dead. MacLeod saw him take a step back. Fight or flight?

"You tak' the high road and I'll be right on your ass," MacLeod promised aloud.

But then Methos ducked his head against the storm and came on, the wind ruffling his dark hair, and MacLeod returned to his chair.

A few seconds later the weathered door gently swung open, hinges protesting, and Methos blocked the doorway, sword drawn. It seemed to take his eyes a moment to make out the tall broad-shouldered figure rising from the creaking chair.

"Well, well," Methos said, his voice light and breathless at least in part from the climb. "Duncan MacLeod. The boy who put the balls in balach. How did you find me?"

"It wasn’t hard. Pierce Adamson? Not very original."

"I suppose not. I must be getting old." Methos offered a diffident smile which went unanswered. He glanced at the sword he still held and secreted it away. "Sorry. I wasn’t…um… expecting company."

"That answers one question."

"Which is?"

"Why you left Paris. You’re not being hunted."

Methos laughed, a short unamused sound, and reached for a towel to mop his face.

"Something funny?" MacLeod asked.

The answer came muffledly. "Not really. It occurred to me a short while ago that all I had to do was go to you for help and all would be forgiven. And here you are; I didn’t even have to ask. The savior syndrome."

"That’s not why I’m here."

"No? Why then? Happened to be in the neighborhood?"

Mac said nothing. It was growing too dark to read each other’s faces in the gloomy light of the croft’s sole window, and with a sound of impatience Methos flung away the towel, fumbling for matches, and lighting the kerosene lantern on the table.

The lantern’s flickering light cast sinister shadows over the white-washed walls and clay floor, and illuminated the strong planes of Mac’s face. It was a handsome face: stubborn chin, full, sensual mouth and solemn, heavy-lidded eyes that could twinkle unexpectedly with humor. It was a good face.

"You look like an avenging angel," Methos commented wryly, "if angels wear Levi’s and leather jackets and smell vaguely like bay rum."

"Why did you run?"

"Run?"

Mac folded his arms, indicating he was ready to wait this out, and Methos sighed and said, "Look, Mac…" He shrugged helplessly. "It’s what I do."

"Running is what you do?"

"Surviving," Methos said with an edge to his voice. "Why the hell did you come after me?"

"Because we're friends."

"You say that like you never doubted it."

Betrayal could cut two ways. Mac's face tightened. "You could have trusted me with the truth, Methos. It would have made things easier."

"Would it? For whom?" Methos sighed and raked a hand through his damp hair—what was left of it. He appeared to have been run over by a lawnmower. He needed a shave too. He'd lost weight in the last months; Dawson's friend was right, Methos did look ill.

"We are friends," Mac repeated in a voice that brooked no argument.

Methos' eyes flicked briefly to Mac's. "I know. But…this is the way I want it."

"The way you want it? To live like this?" Mac gestured to the leaking thatch roof, the lack of amenities. "The man who thinks seventy degrees is Freezing Point?"

Methos shrugged. "You know what they say. A man's home is his casa."

Mac exhaled a long breath. "Don't be a fool, Methos. Come back to Paris."

With one long finger Methos drew something in the dust coating the table-top. King Solomon's star? A pentagram? Yankee Go Home?

"Do you know how many centuries it’s been since I had a real friend?" He said softly. "I don’t know that I’ve ever had a friend like you, MacLeod." A tiny smile played about his mouth. "I don’t know that anyone has."

For a moment their gazes held in the wavering light.

"Come home."

"I…think not. But thank you for asking."

It hurt far more than it should have. Far more than Mac had anticipated. It took him a second to master his voice. "Then what will you do?"

And Methos answered with grating flippancy, "For a time I’ll continue here as Pierce Adamson, naturalist, studying the mating habits of the Arctic tern, and you, Highlander, will row, row, row your boat back to Stornoway or wherever the hell you came from, and catch the first flight home to Seacouver."

"One small problem. I didn’t row, row, row myself over here, and the boat doesn’t come back till tomorrow morning."

Methos' jaw dropped.

"Now there’s a familiar expression," Mac said maliciously. "Close your mouth, you'll catch flies."

"It's too cold for flies," Methos replied automatically. He looked around as though the walls were closing in.

"So," MacLeod inquired, "What do you have to drink?"

"You could light a fire," MacLeod suggested as Methos sat there absently rubbing (or possibly wringing) his long white hands.

They had consumed a supper consisting of a lot of whisky and a variety of tinned foods like smoked oysters, button mushrooms, salted nuts and cocktail olives. Now they had run out of things to eat and polite conversation.

MacLeod's words hung in the chill air, and the wind off the ocean soughed mournfully down the chimney like the ocean’s sigh in conch shell.

"Have you any idea of how difficult it is to light a peat fire?" Methos inquired in a surly tone.

Brushing his hands together, MacLeod rose. "Step aside, old man, and watch how it's done."

"Be my guest." Methos propped his chin on his hand observing MacLeod in action. Aggravatingly true to form, in a matter of minutes the Highlander had a smoldering sort-of fire going, the pungent smell of peat filling the one room croft.

Smothering a yawn, Methos muttered, "Did you ever consider how bloody predictable our lives are, MacLeod?" He sloshed the last of the whisky in his mug. "Everything we love changes, everyone we love, dies. It's like…it's like bad television."

"You've had too much to drink."

Methos nodded sagely. "Yes. I don't like to as a rule. Get drunk, I mean. D'you know why?"

"You don't like to lose control."

"You think you know me." Methos grinned crookedly.

"It's why you're afraid of dying. Not the permanent lose-your-head dying, but the other dying. You were scared to death when Jason Powers nailed you."

Methos stood up, steadying himself on the table. "Bed, I think. I'd offer you the sofa but there isn't one." His lip curled. "You can crawl in with me if you promise to…" The rest of it was lost as he staggered out into the night to take a piss.

MacLeod thought it over. He sure as hell didn’t fancy the floor. Over the centuries on many a campaign, for warmth and convenience, he'd doubled up with friends. Granted, never with a friend who had Methos' sexual inclinations.

**********

What the hell, Mac thought. He's the one worse for liquor. If anyone's taking advantage tonight… He didn't finish the thought, instead pulling off his boots and climbing into the crub bed built into the croft wall. The bed was about four feet wide, padded with straw and heather beneath the wool blankets. It brought back memories for MacLeod who had known more than a few such bunks in his time.

The door blew open and Methos blew in, his teeth chattering. "Bloody hell!"

"Yeah, and if you like the autumn, you'll LOVE the winter."

Methos shot Mac a look that should have razed him to cinders—which would have been welcome given the croft’s temperature.

Dropping into the chair, Methos tugged at his boots. Mac rolled onto his side watching the other man.

For some reason the butchered hair annoyed him. Methos looked like a penitent.

"Who cuts your hair?" he asked. "You look like a cancer patient."

"I feel like a cancer patient," Methos said wearily, taking MacLeod aback. He couldn’t see the other man’s face, but he could see the thinness of his wrists as he struggled with his boots, the slump of his shoulders; there was something exposed and vulnerable about the back of his neck, the shape of his ears.

Methos tossed the boots aside and rose. He turned down the lamp wick, the flame briefly illuminating the high planes of his face, a mask which vanished in the turn of the wick. He moved silently across the room and stood over the bed.

"Maybe we should sleep with our swords between us," he muttered, as MacLeod pressed back against the wall.

"There isn’t enough room."

Methos sat down on the edge of the bed. After a moment he lay back, neat and compact, beside MacLeod. MacLeod grabbed for his coat, bundling it up like a pillow.

"Ouch." Methos put his hand to his nose.

"Sorry." And then as Methos raised his head and banged Mac's chin. "Damn!"

"Sorry." Methos yanked the rough blanket up, his knuckles just missing Mac’s jaw, and turned over on his side. "Sweet dreams."

The stone wall was cold and damp against MacLeod's back. Cautiously he inched towards the center of the lumpy bedding, listening as Methos’ breathing slowed, evened out. Mac relaxed a little. Then Methos jerked, his arm shot out, his leg kicked spasmodically.

MacLeod started up on elbow.

Methos chuckled sleepily. "Sorry," he slurred. "Dreamt I was falling…"

"You won’t fall," MacLeod said. "Here, there’s room. Scoot over." When Methos rolled over to face him he wondered if he should have kept his mouth shut.

Methos’ forehead was level with MacLeod’s, his breath fanned Mac’s mouth. He smelled of wool and whisky and something…ancient and herbal. Vetyver? The spiky softness of his hair tickled Mac’s face.

Reluctantly Mac acknowledged that there was something erotic in the feel of their stockinged feet brushing each other, the warmth of bare bodies beneath jeans and big sweaters. Even without touching, he could feel the bone and muscle of Methos’ spare body, the silk of his hair, the smoothness of his skin. He didn't know about Methos' reaction to their proximity, but for some reason Mac was getting hard.

Not for the first time Mac found himself speculating on Methos' male lovers. He wondered about Kronos; there had been something odd in that relationship. He remembered the boy in the wine bar. Had there been many such affairs? Did Methos prefer men or boys? Was he a top or bottom? What was he thinking right now?

Methos began to snore, a droning sound, like a mantra. Mac grinned at himself and closed his eyes.

The hours passed. The moon drifted across the window and left the blank square of an empty frame of night. Methos' breathing changed as he began to dream. His muscles tensed, his limbs twitched with tiny movements, eyelids flickering. His hands clenched and unclenched. He turned his head on the pillow in denial. Even his nightmares were self-contained, Mac thought, coming back to alertness.

Methos cried out. It was a naked sound, angry and panicked. He jerked back, and thinking he would fall out of the bed, MacLeod reached for him, drawing the slighter man against himself.

"Wheesht," he whispered from distant memories of his own Highland childhood. "Wheesht, lad."

Methos went very still. Mac knew he must be awake now but Methos didn’t move, didn’t speak, continuing to breath in and out in that quiet even way.

MacLeod rubbed his cheek against the spiky soft hair. It was queer in more ways than one because Methos was older, and Mac would have bet, harder than basalt, but something about the guy brought out the Highlander’s protective instincts. The pretense of sleep made it possible to hold the other man, to comfort him as he would never dream of in waking hours.

Then Methos sighed.

"Bad dreams?"

"Only to be expected, don't you think?" He sounded shaky, exhausted.

"Want to talk about it?"

Silhouetted in the light of the peat fire flame the outline of Methos shook his head. "Talking doesn't help. Drinking doesn't help."

"What helps?"

Methos shocked him rigid then by putting his arms around MacLeod. His flushed face pressed against MacLeod’s throat. His lips felt soft against Mac’s skin but he didn’t move, didn’t speak, and then Mac felt something hot and wet slide down his throat, fall on the pillow between their heads. Instinctively Mac’s arms tightened about him.

Methos cried silently, resisting grief, his body stiff as though it hurt to weep.

Mac opened his mouth but there were no words he could say to comfort sorrow he didn’t understand. Maybe these tears were a good thing. Maybe this was a healing. After a long while he kissed Methos’ temple and said softly in Gaelic, "An rud a thig leis a ghaoith, falbhaidh a leis an t-uisge."

Methos sighed, a hot wet breath against MacLeod’s face. He rolled back a little, wiping his arm across his eyes, just missing clipping MacLeod’s nose. MacLeod squeezed gently, keeping him close.

"Gaelic isn’t one of my languages," Methos said, his voice dragging.

MacLeod answered, "It’s a proverb. ‘What comes with the wind, disappears with the rain.’ "

Blame it on the oysters, but then MacLeod did something he would never have believed possible even six months earlier: he kissed Methos.

It was a tentative kiss, a brush of lips, no more. MacLeod had never kissed another man before. It was strange to feel stubble instead of soft skin, to experience the shape and texture of a man's mouth. Methos tasted of salt tears; he tasted warm and male and unexpectedly sweet. The sound he made, soft and surprised, had an arousing effect on Mac.

Once more he covered Methos' mouth, this time with a hungry passion that even startled himself. After a moment Methos responded. His hands slid up under Mac's sweater, cold on Mac's heated skin. Feverishly MacLeod's own groping hands found the button-fly of Methos' Levi's, tugging at the rivets. He helped Methos kick out of the binding jeans, stirring up a cloud of straw and heather dust.

"Duncan, are you sure?" Methos gasped as their mouths broke apart for air.

MacLeod didn't bother to answer. Did he know the answer? He sat up, hands going to his belt buckle, scrambling out of his pants as though they were on fire.

Methos was shivering, only partly with cold, as he reached for MacLeod. More frantic fumbling as they explored each other, sharing a few rough caresses.

Fast and furious, it was a coupling unlike any Mac had known. With the gentler sex—even with Amanda—he prided himself on his skilled and tender lovemaking. There was a wild relief in strength matching strength, heat and hunger pitted evenly.

Methos flung himself back in the straw bedding and Mac covered his tall, muscular body with his own. Methos was panting, Mac could feel his heart thudding beneath his ear. He nipped Methos where the curve of his long neck met shoulder, and Methos ran his hands through Mac's hair, combing it through his fingers.

Mac could feel Methos' cock hard against his belly, and his own thrust forward, dueling pleasurably, blade scraping blade, attack, parry and riposte.

Methos groaned something. It sounded like Egyptian or Phoenician, whatever language, it was definitely an expression of satisfaction.

"I want to sheathe myself in your body," Mac whispered, daring to voice a fantasy he had never acknowledged even to himself until now.

In answer Methos raised his hips, his fingers wrapping around Mac's throbbing cock, guiding it into his body. Mac scraped in, sword to scabbard, skintight. Urgently Methos' mouth found Mac's.

They began to rock. Slowly then faster they bent their backs to it, finding their rhythm. Mac felt singed by the energy and tension building, crackling. It was like riding a comet through space; hotter and faster, holding on for dear life…

And then the release, an amazing explosion that rolled though MacLeod like a supernova, like a tiny, exquisite Quickening.

Mac shouted a highland whoop.

Methos dropped back sweating and gasping, and Mac collapsed on top of him. Methos raised his head enough to kiss the sweaty top of Mac's, and then relaxed into the straw.

When Mac had his wind back he rolled off Methos and pulled the blanket up covering them both.

By then the black house's interior was materializing in the gloomy first light. The battered furniture appeared, then the remnants of their meal and the empty whisky bottle. Methos was watching Mac with those bright, ageless eyes.

Mac smiled sheepishly. What had seemed inevitable in the darkness seemed impossible in the gray light of dawn.

Yet he did not regret it. Reading the question is his friend's eyes he brushed his knuckles against the side of Methos's bony face, feeling the bristle of his jaw line. No, he didn't regret it, and somewhere in the middle of that thought, Mac fell asleep.

In the morning it was a little uncomfortable, Methos polite but withdrawn over a breakfast of kippers, cheese, water biscuits and tea strong enough to peel the enamel off teeth.

"Are you coming back?" Mac asked when the boat from the mainland sailed into the cove.

Methos eyes were the green-gold of bracken drying in the sun. "Yes. I think so. Eventually."

"Are we talking weeks or centuries?"

A twitch of a smile. "Be careful what you wish for."

"Take care my friend." They clasped hands and then embraced awkwardly.

The terns were screaming from the cliff tops, their raucous cries echoing off the slate skies. Grey seals streaked through the water accompanying the boat as it set sail. When MacLeod looked back he could see Methos standing atop the hill, the wind whipping his coat like a cloak. The wizard in exile.

He did come back though. A couple of weeks after MacLeod said adios to Otavio Consone, he got the call from Dawson saying Adam Pierson was back at work.

"I don’t get it. There must have been a convention of Watchers at that submarine base, but our friend comes and goes as he pleases?"

Dawson’s laugh was more of a cough. "Every Immortal doesn’t have a Watcher, MacLeod. There aren’t enough field agents to go around. Silas and Caspian weren’t considered active, and no one had been willing to be assigned to Kronos for the last two centuries. I sure as hell wasn’t there, and thanks to you, Cassandra knows she has a Watcher and ditches her whenever she pleases."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

"What do you expect, Joe? Some things aren’t meant to be watched."

It was an on-going argument, never resolved in Dawson’s lifetime.

**********

Fast forward fifty years. Fast forward to a summer day on Crete. The white mountains grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror as MacLeod drove on towards a remote village in the Gorge of Minos. The hum of cicadas filled the dry air, the skies were achingly blue, pink oleanders and wild flowers floating like clouds, blooming along the winding road.

Shifting gears, Mac also changed the direction of his thoughts. If he was wrong, he would have to start from scratch. But in his gut he knew he was not wrong, and he had come too far to turn back now; a journey that had nothing to do with delayed plane flights or dusty jeep rides.

There can be only one, he repeated to himself as though it was part of some half-remembered incantation.

**********

It was cool in the underground chamber of the temple cave. Faded dolphins swam gentle-eyed amidst a tangle of peeling seaweed; slim, dark-haired men leapt long-horned bulls.

MacLeod's footsteps resounded emptily down the long hallway as he headed for the antechamber where he had been told he would find Dr. Pierce Adamson deciphering the dead language of a lost civilization.

He felt it then: an aura shimmering off the limestone walls and stone floors: cold and bright like starlight, deep and dark like the watery abyss of the Marianas Trench. In this ancient place the Presence seemed magnified—and yet familiar.

MacLeod knew his gamble had paid off.

Like the shade of some long dead Minoan prince, a form appeared in the lighted doorway at the far end of the corridor, sword in hand.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." MacLeod's husky whisper seemed to roll along the stone hall.

Poised for action, the figure stiffened and then relaxed. "Duncan?"

"Methos."

"Duncan MacLeod?" Methos strode forward, and the illusion of archaic omnipotence was gone. He was just a slim young man in Levi's and a khaki workshirt—carrying a big sword.

MacLeod had always wondered how he got that sword back. One more small mystery he would never know the answer to.

Methos lowered his sword, meeting MacLeod halfway and catching him in a one-armed embrace. He smiled up at the taller man with unguarded pleasure.

"It's been what, forty years? What are you doing here?"

"I've come—" Mac choked on the rest of it. He said instead, "For someone who hates the sea you have a way of ending up on islands."

"How've you been, Mac?" Methos' eyes were grave, remembering the not-so-good times.

Mac said abruptly, "Where can we talk?"

The slanting brows drew together. "Let's go topside. I could use some fresh air."

**********

His hair was cut the way it had been when Mac first met him, and he was tanned the color of pale honey. It looked good on him, made his eyes look green, just the color of the Aegean when Agamemnon and the boys set sail for Troy.

They hiked out of the ruins and away from the site into the hills burnt gold by the summer sun—away from the temple, away from holy ground.

"You've been happy here?" Mac asked, breaking the strained silence that had fallen between them.

"Happy enough."

How well he knew that characteristic little shrug. He knew too every inflection of that smooth voice, right down to the infinitesimal shading which signified a lie.

"You're an archeologist now?"

"Mm. Anthropological linguistics. I study the relationship between language and culture in preliterate societies."

"I noticed a gold funeral mask in the museum at Iraklion that looks an awful lot like you."

Methos chuckled. "You do have an eye for antiquities, MacLeod. Are you still in the trade?"

"Yeah."

"Still in the Game?"

Silence.

Methos tilted his head back gazing up at the blue sweep of sky. Not exactly a Roman coin sort-of profile, not with that nose, Mac thought with a sudden affection that was an ache in his heart.

"There's an Immortal—" His voice cracked, his throat dry as grave dust. MacLeod tried

again. "There's an Immortal, a fanatic, who believes that ignoring the old prophecy will bring disaster to us all. Will bring back Ahriman. Or worse. He believes it is time to end the Game. He's stalking Immortals one by one, taking the oldest and most powerful first."

"No one hunts for a myth. Methos is a myth."

"Who dwells in the land of myth and legend."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that this is someone who has done their research. Someone who knows the past inside out, who knows things most Immortals don't, who has had access to information most Immortals do not."

Methos gave a disbelieving laugh. "You think it's me?"

"No." MacLeod repeated almost gently. "No, I know it's not you."

Brown eyes held bronze for a long moment.

"I see," Methos said at last. "So you've come for my head?"

"I thought so," MacLeod said harshly. "But—"

"But?"

"Go now and…I'll save you for last."

Methos laughed. "The best for last?"

"I don't…want to kill you. It's the Game. There can be only one. It's the Rules."

"It's the Bullshit." Methos' eyes narrowed. "This doesn't even sound like you."

MacLeod said, "I won't offer again. Go now and you'll have a century or so before we meet again."

Methos jumped down from the flat rock they had been sitting on. "I'd just as soon get it over with."

MacLeod's jaw dropped. "Huh?"

"If we're going to cross swords, I'd just as soon it was now."

"What happened to 'live, grow stronger and fight another day?' "

Methos shrugged. "I look back on the last century and do you know the only real happiness I've known came through you, Duncan. Through your friendship. My friends:

Amanda, Dawson…they were your friends first. Even Alexa, the gentlest person I've ever known, came through knowing you. I was more alive during that decade than in all the past century." He smiled the old quirky smile.

"Listen to me. I will kill you."

"Probably. The smart Watcher money was always on you, MacLeod."

"Then go. Why the hell won't you go?"

Methos tilted his head a little as though viewing MacLeod from another perspective. "Is Amanda still alive?"

MacLeod got a funny look. "As far as I know."

"You prioritized. I'm flattered."

He pulled his sword.

Mac rose slowly, drawing his katana. Warily they circled each other. The stony hillside made for uncertain footing. Pine needles slipped under sole.

A formal salute and the blades scraped together. There was no sound but the clash of steel, the skitter of rocks and the hurried breathing of the two men.

They seemed evenly matched at first, despite the difference in their fighting styles. MacLeod was bigger and stronger but Methos was fast on his feet and his thrusts were focused and furious. Quickly though, he began to tire. It had been years since he had squared off against a serious opponent in this out of the way corner of the world.

His foot turned on a rock and he went down hard on one knee, bringing his sword up in belated guard. The katana's blade clanged down and Methos' blade trembled. With his free hand he caught up a fistful of dirt and leaves, flinging it into MacLeod's face.

Staggering back, MacLeod brushed the grime from his eyes and swore.

Methos clambered back to his feet, panting.

Mac didn't give him time to catch his breath, lunging again and recovering even as Methos countered, narrowly missing being run through.

"We don't have time for this!" Mac grated.

Methos was backed against the flat rock. He had sprained his ankle when he fell, and there wasn't time to heal. He had to end it fast. He feinted, Mac parried and as their blades crossed, Methos lunged forward. The point of his blade pierced MacLeod's shoulder and crimson bloomed across the whiteness of Mac's shirt.

Instead of falling back, Mac came at Methos harder than before, blue sparks dancing off steel, the ring of swords bouncing off the desolate hillsides.

Methos fell back against the rock, parrying desperately. MacLeod quit fencing and began to slash with wide ferocious blows. His eyes burned anthracite. His lips drew back in a silent snarl.

Beneath that onslaught Methos fell to his knees, blocking clumsily. Mac's blows nearly shattered his sword.

"God, Duncan—" he cried, and then there was a terrible pain in his head, a red fog rose before his eyes and everything went black.

**********

The sound of dripping water and then something cool and wet pressed against his forehead.

He was still alive; that was his first and foremost thought.

Methos unstuck his eyelids and winced up at the brown blur bending over him.

"Take it easy," Mac soothed.

He licked his lips, found his voice. "What the hell happened?"

He didn't catch MacLeod's tired smile.

"Bloody Jason Powers," Mac quoted from a night in Paris long, long ago.

"Who?" Methos tried to sit up and thought better of it. He just didn't heal as fast as he used to.

"You don't remember Jason Powers?"

"I…yeah, I remember Powers." He pulled the cold cloth off his forehead and glared at Mac. "You knocked me out!"

"Pommel to the temple. Sorry."

The pounding in his skull was dying off. Methos sat up. He was on the tomb-sized desk in his own office. The desk had been cleared, everything swept to the floor. On second thought, it looked like an explosion had taken place. Burnt paperwork littered the floor; Minoan pottery was now reduced to shards; computer equipment, blasted—and a headless corpse lay in a pool of blood by the doorway.

"I like what you've done with the place," Methos remarked. "I take it Powers was the Immortal you were referring to earlier?"

Mac nodded, his eyes apologetic.

"That was a rotten trick to play…" Methos was working it out slowly, his agile brain less agile than usual. "You knew Powers was coming for me. You decided to scare me off and face him yourself."

"I forgot you don't scare easily."

Methos said crisply, "You also apparently forgot that I fight my own battles, MacLeod."

"So sue me." Mac folded his arms, impassive as the moai statues of Easter Island.

"Marvelous. How am I supposed to explain a ritual execution to the site supervisor?" Methos rubbed his forehead, easing a pain that had nothing to do with being coshed. "Why did you do it, is the next question."

"You're the professor, you figure it out."

Methos smiled that smile that Mac remembered—and missed. "I didn't know you cared."

"You didn't want to know."

The smile faded. "That's not true," he said quietly. "I love you, Mac. I always have."

"Then why did you walk away in Paris?"

At first he thought Methos was not going to answer, then, "It was the best of times and the worst of times. It sure as hell wasn't the right time. Not for us."

"So you ran away, which is your stock and trade."

Methos' eyes fell. "Maybe I thought you'd come after me."

MacLeod's features could have been carved in stone.

"Anyway, I'm not running now," Methos said.

"Yeah, for how long?"

Methos glanced up with a rueful smile. "I'm older, Mac. Wiser."

Studying him, Mac felt an unexpected smile tug at his lips. It was a long time since he'd felt like smiling, let alone laughing. A long time since he'd had anyone to laugh with; to be with.

He held his hand out. Methos' eyes widened. Once Kronos had offered his hand in just such a gesture. Their partnership had nearly cost him his soul as well as his life, and Methos had never feared Kronos like he did MacLeod. There was no blood on MacLeod's hand, but that was not the real difference, he realized. The real difference was in the warmth of MacLeod's eyes, the light that dispelled the shadows. That was what he feared; that was what he longed for.

Methos clasped Mac's hand in a hard grip; truly brothers-in-arms.

Nobody lives forever, Mac thought. If it's the shadow of the sword that gives focus to our lives, it is love that gives meaning.

Methos was saying, staring at their linked hands, "You know, the Chinese believe that once you save a man's life, you become responsible for it."

"Forever?"

"Well, we could take it one day at a time."

"We could."

And they did.

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